The 4 Weirdest Places I’ve Ever Had Sexby Sara Barron on April 24, 2020
I was a late-in-life virgin. I’m not talking one of those extreme ones – thirty years old, thirty-five, etc. – I mean, like, twenty-three. So does that qualify? Not really. But my point is that most of my friends went about losing their virginity at seventeen, and an extra six years of virginity back then — well, it felt like a lifetime. All this is to say that by the time I finally got around to The Knocking of The Boots, I was out of my parents’ house, living in my first apartment with this gay dude who spent most of his time at his boyfriend’s apartment. And all that is to say that a thing I never had to struggle with was finding a place to have sex. I had my own room by the time I really needed one. So any gentlemanly partner in the erotic arts I stumbled across, he and I would just do it in there. Great. Boom. Done.
The side effect of this circumstance as far as I can tell is that, as an adult in her late twenties, I developed a habit of having sex in odd locations. It’s almost like, I wasn’t forced to be creative in my teens and early twenties, and so the habit/impulse/whatever you want to call it found a way to work itself out later. I never really thought of myself as someone who had a taste for sex in odd locations, because, frankly, I have none of the conscious exhibitionist about me. Also, I’m as lazy and un-ambitious a sex partner as ever you’ll find, so if it’s up to me, I’d never be anywhere other than horizontal on a bed. But then a few weeks ago I went for coffee with an old friend I hadn’t seen in awhile, and she was like, “So. Are you still in that phase where you’re, like, doing weird guys in random locations?” And I was, like, “Wait: What? Was that a thing? Was I that way?” And she was like, “Um, is the Pope Catholic? Is your mother passive-aggressive? Yes. You totally were. Let’s take a stroll down memory lane…”
The Karaoke Booth
In 2004, I attended a twenty-fifth karaoke birthday party in midtown Manhattan. Leo, a friend of a friend to whom I’d always been attracted owing in large part to his resemblance to Michael Imperoli – I’ve been in love with Imperioli’s chest hair for, like, ages – did a bang-up version of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” OMG, amigos, it was good. And funny. And therefore attractive. So when the rest of the guests started clearing out, and he asked if I wanted to hang out in the room for another round of drinks and a duet to TLC’s “No Scrubs,” I answered “Yes” without hesitation. Well, there we were alone, both intoning, “A scrub is a guy who thinks he’s fine…” when one thing led to another.
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The floor of a public bathroom
I did something super, super original back when I was in my early twenties. Are you ready? It’s so original you won’t even understand what I’m telling you. I, a white gal from the upper-middle-class suburbs, went backpacking through Western Europe! I know! It’s crazy! You’ve never heard of such a thing! Anyhooz, I was in a youth hostel in Florence, where I met a handsome – by late ‘90s standards – Australian surfer named Matt. We realized we both spoke English and, on this commonality alone, decided we ought to have sex. Of course, in a hostel, you’re sharing a room with 14,327 other people, and so we found ourselves a handicapped bathroom, locked the door, and got to it. My back, I must tell you, has never been so cold.
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In an apartment
Surely you’re thinking, “Doing it in an apartment’s not weird.” Oh, but it is. It is if this apartment is the primary residence of the guy who bartends at the restaurant you’re now working at. It is if this apartment is so noticeably filthy that you see – upon entry – a jock strap hanging off a desk lamp set on the floor. It is if, while having sex on linoleum flooring, the tiles begin to peel up and off onto your back. What’s so profoundly odd, is that any woman in the universe would have ever had sex here. But I did. Humiliating? Indeed. I try to chalk it up to youthful idiocy.
In a hospital bathroom
I’ll tell you how this one happened. I was a couple months into a romance. You know, in the midst of that totally unsustainable phase where you can’t keep any of your parts off the other person’s parts, when I cut my finger on a rusty window ledge. As I wasn’t in the market for tetnus – and as my quasi-boyfriend was with me at the time – he accompanied me to the emergency room, where, thanks to the fact I live in New York City, I was stuck waiting to be seen for no fewer than four hours. We got so bored eventually, we were like, “Should we do it?” We decided we should.